


blue bucket of gold

by thesilverwitch



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Blood, First Kiss, Fluff, Lots of happy vibes, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:39:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3964693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverwitch/pseuds/thesilverwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isco closes his eyes. He tries to move his hands, knows it won’t get him anywhere with the tight cords wrapped around his wrists. His knees are bleeding, spurts of angry blood that will surely leave marks on the dirt. His skin had been torn apart at the same time as the fabric of his jeans ripped, destroyed when they dragged him further into the clearing, away from prying eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blue bucket of gold

There is a gun pointed at his head. The metal is cold against the side of his temple and he feels, more than hears, the safety click being pulled. The barrel shifts, moving millimeter by millimeter as a slight tremor runs down the hitman’s hand.

Isco closes his eyes. He tries to move his hands, knows it won’t get him anywhere with the tight cords wrapped around his wrists. His knees are bleeding, spurts of angry blood that will surely leave marks on the dirt. His skin had been torn apart at the same time as the fabric of his jeans ripped, destroyed when they dragged him further into the clearing, away from prying eyes.

Isco inhales, pulling in a lungful of dirty air.

He feels the trigger being pulled, the air being sucked into the barrel glued to his skull. 

What a way to die. What a way to live.

— — —

They are eating shrimp when Toni suggests it.

“We should go to Italy,” he says. Isco pulls up his sunglasses so he can peer at him.

“Italy? Why Italy?”

Toni smiles. “I like it there. Haven’t been in a while.”

Isco watches him for a couple of seconds before he lets his sunglasses drop onto his nose and closes his eyes. He smiles back. “Then to Italy we’ll go. Want me to book the tickets?”

“I’ll buy them and text you the details later.”

“Sounds good.” With his eyes still closed, and his body in a near horizontal pose, Isco reaches his hand forward in search for the bowl of shrimp he knows he’ll find somewhere on the table. Toni laughs and the next second, there is a bowl full of shrimp in Isco’s hand. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

— — —

It’s October and autumn is already in full swing, providing them with an evening full of infernal rain.

Isco is walking towards the front door. The card for the valet is in his hand, ready to be delivered, even though he knows there is a queue by the door that will stop him from handing out the card any time soon. He lingers outside while he waits for the people to clear out. Inside, the atmosphere had been close to claustrophobic. Isco doesn’t like type of event. They’re too much for him. Too pompous. Too big. Too annoying.

He leans back against a glass window as he waits. He’s shielded from the rain by the roof covering the entire entrance area, which is full of people waiting like him and a few smokers. Isco is watching the cars pass by far too slowly for his taste when he spots him.

“Hello. Still here?” he asks.

“I’ve lost my valet card,” Toni replies. “And my wallet. And my phone. I’ve lost everything but my clothes, basically, except for the handkerchief I was keeping in my breast pocket, which I also lost.”

“You lost all those or you were mugged?”

“Jury is still out on that,” Toni replies. He doesn’t sound all that bothered, so Isco doesn’t feel too bad about laughing at his situation.

“Are you waiting for someone to take pity on you and offer you a ride home or have you found another way to leave?”

Toni scratches the back of his hair, ducking his head before he looks up and flashes Isco a timid smile. “The former, actually.”

“And what would you do if I hadn’t come along?” Isco asks.

“Walked home in the rain while crying at my misery?” Toni asks, sparking another laugh out of Isco, who shakes his head at him.

“Figures,” he says. “Wait here, I’ll go give me card to one of the valets.”

The amount of people waiting for someone to get their cars is still considerable, but the promise of a photo with two Real Madrid players gets one of the valets, just a skinny kid not that younger than Isco, moving. Isco waves at Toni, who jogs to his side.

“Look snazzy,” Isco says. Toni gives him quizzical look, but the meaning of Isco’s words dawns on him quickly when the valet merges from Isco’s Mercedes with his phone already in his hand and a wide grin on his face.

They take the selfie and give the kid a large tip before Isco drives Toni home. Throughout the ride, they talk about the banquet they had just attended, as well as basketball and Toni’s awful taste in music. It’s the first time they have a conversation that lasts more than five minutes, and Isco finds himself enjoying it thoroughly. Toni speaks in a weird mix of Spanish, English and German and Isco does his best to use easy words, although sometimes he loses track of what he’s saying as he loses himself in the flow of their conversation.

“What is your problem with Olly Murs?” Toni asks. Isco has spent the past five minutes criticizing the artist, and Toni looks about ready to jump out of them moving car so that he doesn’t have to listen to another minute of it.

“My problem isn’t with Olly Murs, my problem is with the entire industry behind him and other pop artists, who have no real talent and whose only job is to look decent on camera and have a mediocre voice.”

“Olly Murs is not mediocre,” Toni says, sounding so offended you’d think Isco had just made a ‘your momma’ joke.

“He is the definition of mediocre,” he replies, grinning wide when Toni scoffs at him. He may be getting more than a little pleasure from watching Toni get so riled up about this.

“ _You_ are the definition of mediocre,” Toni says and Isco spends the rest of the ride home laughing, even after he’s dropped off Toni.

That is how it starts.

— — —

It is hot in Italy, hotter than it had been in Madrid, but while in Madrid they are surrounded by desert from all sides and the air is hot and stuffy all year around, in Castellabate it’s cool and fresh thanks to the sea, which is a five-minute walk away from their hotel. Isco is no longer used to feeling like there is a layer of salt covering his skin at all times, but he finds that he doesn’t mind it. He’d missed looking out the window and seeing a blue open expanse right at his doorstep.

Somehow, between present time and two days ago, when they arrived at their hotel, Toni has already gotten a vivid red sunburn across his back and shoulders.

“How are you supposed to survive a two week vacation if you can’t even survive two days in the sun?” Isco asks. He’s sitting on Toni’s ass as he rubs an aftersun cream all over the man’s back. Despite the edge in his words, he makes sure to be gentle with his hands.

“This was a mishap,” Toni argues. When it comes to being stubborn, mules have nothing on him.

“This was a clear display of German inferiority.”

Toni snorts. “Thanks. Appreciated.”

Isco pinches his waist, laughing when Toni yelps. He continues applying the aftersun cream.

“Pasta or pizza for dinner tonight?”

“You know we don’t have to eat Italian food for every meal just because we’re in Italy, right?”

Isco pinches him again. “Pasta or pizza?”

“Pasta,” Toni says as he laughs. “There’s a wider variety to pick from.”

“You only say that because you’re an old man when it comes to your pizza and you literally get the same three toppings every time: sausage, mushrooms and extra cheese.”

Toni shrugs and the movement has Isco reaching forward to avoid losing balance.

“There is time and place for change. That time and place is not when my dinner is on the line,” Toni replies. Isco can admit he doesn’t think too differently.

— — —

It’s an accident. A clear case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. The Italians don’t recognize them, maybe because all of Toni’s skin is a lovely shade of red and Isco isn’t that well known outside of Spain. All they notice is that they are being watched and they can’t have that.

They don’t give Isco and Toni time to explain.

— — —

The first thing Isco says to Toni is, “Hello,” in English.

Toni smiles, a little shy, and shakes Isco’s hand. He says, “Hello,” back, then continues speaking in perfect English.

Isco makes a face.

“I don’t,” he says, pausing when not even past that he can go. He took English classes in school. He knows how to say more than ‘hello’, but right now, under the blazing summer heat, facing this near perfect stranger, he can’t recall anything of what he learned.

Like a guardian angel, Sami comes along out of nowhere and saves them from further embarrassing themselves. Sami wraps an arm around Isco’s shoulder, pulling him into a companionable hug and says something in German to Toni. Isco doesn’t understand any of it.

Toni glances from Sami to Isco and then to Sami again. He says something in German, which Sami translates. “He says he’ll learn Spanish soon.”

“Tell him that if his 'soon' is the same as Gareth’s I won’t be holding my breath,” Isco replies, which makes Sami belt out a loud laugh. He translates the joke for Toni, who lets out the fragmented laugh of someone who doesn’t get the joke but wants to be part of the group, so they laugh anyway. Isco pats Toni on the back.

“You will get there,” he says, finally remembering some English.

Toni flashes him a grateful smile, and Isco walks away feeling lighter than he had been before.

— — —

When Isco arrives to practice the next morning, Toni is the first person to talk to him.

“I’ve thought about what you said last night,” is his conversation starter.

Isco’s eyebrows go to his hairline. “Did you?” he asks. He continues walking towards his locker and Toni follows him, matching his pace step for step.

“I have, about pop artists being all mediocre performers whose only job is looking good on camera.” Toni sits down on the bench next to Isco’s locker. His eyes don’t move away as Isco gets undressed, clearly unbothered, so Isco goes with the flow.

“I didn’t say all artists,” Isco argues as he takes off his shirt.

“You said the entire pop industry.”

Isco inclines his head. He _had_ said that. “They’re all cut from the same cloth.”

“But they’re not. How can you say Beyoncé is cut from the same cloth as Britney Spears, who in turn is meant to be cut from the same cloth as One Direction? They’re nothing alike.”

“Are we really discussing One Direction?” Isco’s eyebrows fly up so high they begin to inhabit a new plane of existence.

“We kick a ball around for a living. Yes, we’re talking about One Direction.”

Isco laughs and decides he can’t really argue with that. Toni follows him onto the football pitch, which is how they end up partnered up for the warm up exercises. Toni’s voice is a steady stream all throughout practice. Isco listens with one ear, occasionally intervenes with something obnoxious and pedantic and watches with a grin as Toni grows flustered by his comments.

He catches Sergio’s eye right as practice ends, who raises a single eyebrow in question. Isco shrugs and moves to wrap an arm around Toni’s shoulders. “Tell me again why you think Beyoncé is changing a generation.”

By now, Toni’s picked up that Isco is only trying to get a rise out of him with the conversation, but still, he still does as he is told and gives Isco a ten minute spiel on the sociopolitical power of pop music, talking with a smile on his face the whole time.

— — —

The hotel they’re staying at is a boutique hotel, or so it says on the website. Isco doesn’t care for the name, all he cares for is the small villa they have just for themselves, surrounded by trees and a large field, giving them all the privacy they could want. Even though the beach is right there, they spend a lot of their time at their pool, too lazy to make the short walk to the sea.

Isco eats a kiwi for breakfast. They had ran out of bread yesterday and they’ve yet to make the trip to the local supermarket. Toni eats a sausage.

“You are _so_ German,” Isco says, grimacing as he watches Toni devour the piece of meat. It doesn’t even look like a decent sausage. It’s some off-brand, dark red thing they’d randomly picked up in their first shopping trip.

“Is that an insult?”

“It’s a statement of a fact,” Isco replies. He throws the kiwi peel into the garbage can and takes off his shorts as he walks outside.

“Seriously?” Toni asks.

“We have a private pool, we have to use it to the best of its capacities,” Isco yells right before he dive bombs into the water.

He’s joined a few minutes later by Toni, who has apparently decided to follow Isco’s footsteps despite his earlier protests. They float in the water side by side, anchored to each other by their hands, which are linked together. The only sounds that can be heard are the sea and the birds nearby. Isco has never been more at peace.

Eventually, he feels a tug on his hand, which makes him look at Toni, who continues tugging until Isco swims towards him. “Yes?” he asks.

“Nothing, I just wanted you closer,” Toni replies, ridiculous sap that he is. Isco continues swimming until he’s close enough that he can kiss him.

Isco doesn’t notice he’s being moved across the water until his back hits the tiled surface of the wall. He chuckles, the sound cut off by a sudden groan when Toni’s hand starts stroking him. Both noises are swallowed by Toni’s mouth, but not the moan that comes next, after Isco backs away for a second so he can breathe.

“We’re gonna have to pay a fortune to have this pool cleaned,” Isco gasps. He hides his face in the crook between Toni’s neck and shoulder, leaves a soft bite there when Toni’s hand moves lower.

“I think we can afford it,” Toni says, and it’s unfair how composed and smug he sounds next to Isco, who is quickly unraveling under his hands.

Isco wraps his legs around Toni’s waist and holds himself up with his arms around Toni’s shoulders. “Think we can fuck underwater?” he asks.

“Think we can try,” Toni replies, grinning at him.

They do try, and it doesn’t work, but all that means is Toni has to drag him out of the pool so he can fuck him on the grass.

Despite the back burn fucking on the grass gives him, Isco has no complaints.

— — —

They are walking through the forest when it happens.

Isco thinks they’ve been spending all their time either at the beach or at their pool, which is why he suggests they go somewhere else that day. Close to their hotel is a beautiful forest full of good walking trails according to the front desk receptionist, so they go there with two backpacks full of food, a bottle of sunscreen and a map.

“What’s the point of having phones with maps if we still have to carry a physical map with us?” Isco asks, kicking a stone in front of him like a petulant child.

“The point is having a way to orientate ourselves when our phones eventually lose signal,” Toni says. Isco can see the grin on Toni’s face even though he’s looking at the ground.

“That depends on our ability to place ourselves on that map,” he points out.

“I can do it. I used to be a boy scout when I was younger.”

Isco bursts out laughing. “No, you weren’t. They teach boy scouts basic skills such as cooking, and you are a shit cook.”

“Cooking has nothing to do with being a boy scout,” Toni says, sounding oh, so offended. Isco keeps laughing.

“It does. Also, I’ve read your biography and there were no mentions of any boy scouting there.”

Toni shakes his head at him. “Stalker.”

“Fake boy scout,” he replies, sticking his tongue out before he reaches for Toni’s hand and takes it in his.

They walk for two hours before they decide to take a break for lunch, and that is when they hear it.

“What’s that?” Isco asks. He heard a noise from the clearing a little off to the side from the path they’re taking. Toni’s eyes follow his.

“Probably just some other tourists like us.”

Right as Toni finishes speaking, they hear someone shout what sounds like _help_ in Italian. Isco glances at Toni, who is already getting up from his seat on a fallen tree trunk.

“Let’s go see,” Toni suggests. Isco doesn’t think to say _no_.

— — —

He regrets it so much later. He regrets many things, but he regrets that the most.

They should have called the police. They should have walked away.

A heavy feeling had sunk to the bottom of Isco’s stomach as they made their way to the clearing, but he had ignored it, told himself not to be a coward and kept walking.

He should have listened.

They are at the wrong place at the wrong time.

— — —

For Christmas, Toni gives Isco Olly Murs’ entire discography. 

“Wow.” Is the only reply Isco is capable of giving. He blinks at the CDs in his hands. He didn’t even know Olly Murs had produced this much music.

“You’re welcome,” Toni says. He sounds so damn proud of himself. Isco shakes his head in disbelief. Who knew there was such an asshole behind those tired eyes and blank smiles?

After giving the CDs a closer look, Isco glances at the package next to his feet. He had wrapped it as carefully as he could with blue and white paper, putting a big blue bow on top. The result was a bit clumsy, if not childish, but it did the trick. His gift, compared to Toni’s, now looked very out of place, and Isco regretted not getting something simpler.

“Is that—“ Toni begins. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the _for me_ hanging at the end there is still audible to both.

“Yeah. It’s a bit different from what you got me. You’re always talking about the Dallas Mavericks, so, well, I thought you’d like something related to them. It’s nothing special,” he finishes as he hands Toni the package.

Blue and white paper falls on the floor, piece by piece, so as to reveal the blue and white shirt underneath. Isco is not too clever with his wrapping ideas.

Isco watches Toni’s face, noticing all the microscopic changes. It goes from confused, to happy, to confused again.

“What year is this from?” Toni asks.

“1980. It’s their first jersey. I bought it off a fan in America,” Isco explains, not mentioning that it had taken him ages to find a real Dallas Mavericks jersey from their first season and cost him a pretty penny as well.

“Thank you so much. Isco,” Toni looks up, stares at Isco with this wide-eyed look of awe. “Thank you.”

Isco waves him off. “It’s nothing. Seriously. I just thought you’d like it.”

“I do. I really do,” Toni replies. His gaze shifts from Isco to the jersey, then back to Isco again, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Isco doesn’t look away, even though everything in him has him fighting the eye contact. It will look more obvious if he shies away now. He knows it will.

“That’s good. Anyway, I think I still have a CD player here somewhere, we should play one of the CDs you got me. What do you think? We’ll start with his first album and make our way to present day?”

He moves before Toni can say something else, finds the CD player in the midst of the pile of electronics beneath his television and slips in Olly Murs’ lovely first album. Then, since he’s already up and not ready to face Toni again, he walks to the kitchen to fetch them some drinks.

He’s in the process of heating the milk to make two delicious cups of hot chocolate when Toni joins him. The plastic sounds of Olly Murs’ commercialized garbage continue to play in the living room.

“Isco,” Toni says, staring at Isco across the doorway. Isco ignores him.

“You want whip cream or marshmallows on your hot chocolate?”

“Whip cream,” Toni replies. He takes three steps forward, until he’s by Isco’s side. “Isco,” he repeats, making Isco look up.

“Yes?” he asks. He has a can of whip cream in his hand and a mug full of steaming milk in the other.

“Can I kiss you?” Toni asks. Isco drops the can of whip cream. It’s only a very strong presence of mind created by years of running after a ball for ninety minutes that has him clutching the mug tighter.

“On the mouth?” he asks. It pays to be sure.

Toni reaches for the mug in Isco’s hand and gently pries it away, leaving it on the counter far away from easy reach. “Yes,” he replies, and then he kisses Isco, who kisses back.

— — —

They run away. Toni takes a step forward, fucking idiotic hero that he is, but he doesn’t get far with Isco’s hand wrapped tight around his arm and pulling him back. Isco whispers, “we need to get the fuck away from here,” and starts moving. Toni follows him.

They manage to take a few steps back without being noticed and Isco is already pulling his phone out of his pocket when someone shouts, “Hey!”

That is when they run.

They do manage to get pretty far, right until Isco trips, that is. That’s when it all goes to hell.

Isco trips like a fucking child, like his job isn’t running for ninety minutes without tripping, like an idiot. Toni stops, but Isco is smart, he knows what this means. He says, “Go, I’m right behind you,” and then he gets up, pretends he hasn’t just twisted his ankle and takes a few more steps before he collapses again.

Toni notices. Of course he notices, but by then the Italians are closing in on them, and Isco has enough presence of mind to shout, “Run, Toni!” with his soul in his throat.

Toni runs.

He runs and he doesn’t stop and Isco knows they won’t catch him.

— — —

They have two days off during Easter break, which Toni uses to fly Isco with him to Germany.

Fly, in the direct sense that he’s the one who buys them the tickets and figures out all the places they’ll go to, all the places he thinks Isco will like. They spend a day in Berlin, take a night train and end up in Greifswald by the next morning.

“This is where you grew up?” Isco asks.

“Yes. It’s not a very exciting city, but I thought you would like to see it.”

Toni doesn’t meet his eyes, so Isco reaches for his hand, gives it a brief squeeze before he drops it in case someone is watching them.

“I do want to see it. Come on. Show me everything,” he says, grinning widely. 

Isco can agree that Greifswald isn’t on Berlin’s level of excitement, but he can also say with certainty that it’s one of the prettiest cities he’s ever visited, and he’s visited a lot of places. He spends the day trailing after Toni, listening with attention as Toni tells him all he knows about the buildings they see. Toni is no history whizz, but he has a lot of personal anecdotes that Isco finds even more interesting.

Toni points to a small alley between two tall buildings by the riverside. “I got into a fistfight there once.”

Isco gasps. “You did not,” he says.

“I did. Some kid was messing with my brother, so I punched him.”

Isco has a billion questions he needs to ask all at once. “What did he do afterwards? Did he punch you back? How old were you?”

“He punched me back, but then Felix kicked him in the balls and he started crying. I think I must have been twelve? We ran all the way home afterwards and I didn’t go out for a week because I was afraid the kid had the police after me.”

It takes Isco a long time to stop laughing. “Oh my god,” he says as he wheezes. Toni pats him on the back. “That is the best story I’ve ever heard.”

Toni takes a small bow. “Glad to be of service,” he says, and Isco laughs even harder, so painfully in love with this man that he can’t even put it into words.

They have dinner with Toni’s family, which is awkward and full of pauses since Toni has to constantly translate what’s being said, but which is also lovely and full of laughter. 

They board a plane to Madrid in the middle of the night and are at practice the next day at eleven, practically dead on their feet. It’s the best weekend Isco’s had in a while.

— — —

There is blood.

There is a lot of blood.

It’s the first thing Isco sees.

The next are the guns.

— — —

The Italians ask him a lot of questions, and despite the similarities between Spanish and Italian, Isco’s grasp of the language isn’t enough that he can answer any of them.

All he can say is, “Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.”

He gets punched in the face and when he falls on the dirt, two lifeless eyes stare back at him. 

Isco’s tongue moves without thinking. “Don’t kill me. I didn’t see anything. I won’t talk, please,” he says and the words are a prayer, a cry and a death sentence all at once.

— — —

The first time Isco says, “I love you,” they’ve just been kicked out of the Champions League and he feels like absolute shit. 

There is a bottle of vodka waiting for him at his house that he just can’t wait to get to, but before he even makes it to his car, Toni is there. He says, “Come to my place,” and Isco can’t say no.

Toni gets them two beers. Not what Isco wanted, but not so bad either. They watch a replay of a Madrid Open tennis match and Toni points at the screen whenever he sees himself in the crowd. Isco laughs at his enthusiasm.

“You’re on television all the time,” he says.

Toni shrugs. “Still cool.”

They do not talk about the game, and after they’re done with their beers, Toni doesn’t offer to get more for them. Isco doesn’t say anything.

It’s only as they’re getting ready for bed in companionable silence that the words tumble from his lips.

“I love you,” he says as Toni slips on a pair of neon pink pajama bottoms. Real Madrid truly are a fashion icon.

“What?” Toni asks. His eyes have just gone from ‘almost closed with exhaustion’ to ‘just got in the face’ open wide.

“I mean, I said,” Isco pauses. Is there a way he can fix this? He could blame it on exhaustion. He could lie and say he said, ‘yo te llamo’ even though that wouldn’t make any sense. He could say ‘what?’ back and pretend he didn’t say anything and Toni just heard the wind or a ghost or something.

Instead, he repeats the words with what he hopes is a steady voice.

“I love you.”

“Oh,” Toni replies. It's not the worst reply possible, but it's not on the ideal thing to say to someone who has just told you they love you. Isco is thankful for the low light in the room, because he knows his flushed cheeks would be all too noticeable otherwise.

“Let’s just forget this happened, shall we?” he asks as he grimaces. He moves to leave the room, use the bathroom in the hall and possibly drown himself in the toilet while he’s there. Toni stops him before he gets too far.

“I love you too,” he says in a rush. Isco stares. “Sorry, you just caught me off-guard there. I love you though. I do.”

Isco kisses him, and Toni kisses back.

— — —

Isco sees his parents. He sees his dogs. He sees Benalmádena. He sees Madrid. He sees his teammates and his friends. He sees Toni.

The man above him presses the metal barrel harder against his head. Isco’s heart is beating at twenty thousand kilometers per hour. He whispers, “Don’t kill me,” as the bile rises in his throat.

— — —

He hears sirens in the distance.

Isco exhales.


End file.
